


You Made Me

by KindListener



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 4
Genre: Gun Violence, Gun play, Love/Hate, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24662599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: Would it be right to shoot him? Maybe. Would it be satisfying? Of course, it would. It always is.
Relationships: Ajay Ghale/Pagan Min, Pagan Min/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	You Made Me

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a quick break from MK and this came out. Am I done with it? IDK, maybe.

You could never kill Pagan Min, not even if you stuck a bullet between his pretty, brown eyes. Those eyes you fell for what feels like decades ago. No. His legacy would carry on in some distant corner of Kyrat, where the blood would run like water. So what would be the point in killing him?  
"You could shoot me -- boring -- or you could sit down, enjoy some food and then we'll scatter your mother's ashes, together." You can't... You can't pull the trigger on this tyrant. You can't pull the trigger on this outrageous man and it feels like he's the one with the advantage, with his strong, nimble fingers threatening to tear your heart in two. Would it be right to shoot him? Maybe. Would it be satisfying? Of course, it would. It always is.

The room is silent. So silent you can hear your pulse in your ears. You stalk toward Min as he stabs at his food, gazing up at you with those pretty, brown eyes.  
"Come on, Ajay. You're better than this." He takes another bite of his dish and glances up at you. You press the barrel to his temple and he freezes before resting his head against his hand.  
"You're fucking crazy." You manage between gritted teeth, bringing your other hand to steady your shaking wrist. "I should do the world a favour." Pagan blinks slowly and for a moment you feel that you can hear his heart stutter as you grind the barrel against his skull.

Swallowing quickly, you keep a hold your gun, choosing instead to tackle Min to the floor. You tuck your hand around the base of his skull, protecting him from hitting his head against the hardwood floor. His chair topples over and you kick it out of the way as Pagan attempts to scramble out from under you.  
"What're you--" You cut him off as you pin his wrists to the floor, devouring his lips and palming at his chest, where you can feel his heart racing. "Ajay--"  
"Don't say another fucking word." You bite back, leaning against the pale crook of his neck and biting down there. His tastes of sugar and cardamom, or maybe it's just your brain telling you that because you've wanted this since he first stepped off that fucking helicopter. Pressing the gun under his jaw, you sink your teeth against his skin, feeling his body jolt under you. You bite hard enough to leave a bruise, hard enough to bring blood to the surface. You can feel his breath against your hair, warm and quick, as he gasps. When you pull back, a red-indigo welt has bloomed across his skin, blood beading on the dermis.

You first saw Min with blood drenching his shoes and spattering over his sharp jawline. It was a sign of things to come. You should've known, should've suspected, that this man would be your downfall. A maniac dictator with blood on his hands and thorn in his side. You push his knees up, parting his thighs so you can rut between them, forcing him to swallow thickly and shudder. Furious, ravenous, dangerous sex that makes you all the more angry at yourself for not putting him (or yourself) out of his misery. He has to pay. Pay for all the lives he's forced you to take, all the impossible decisions he forced you to make, all the nights you laid awake. A disease on Kyrat. A virus that crept through your grey matter and settled in the folds of your brain. You tear open the next few buttons on his shirt and he doesn't complain. The buttons skitter across the floor as you press your mouth to his collarbone, sucking flesh between your teeth and rolling it on your jaw. You don't need to hold his wrists down anymore, he lays motionless as you ravage his helpless body, occasionally biting his lip or sucking in a breath. It's been months. Months of being drenched in blood, drugged, shot at, bitten, stung and rolling from cars. The scars you've gained are reason enough to put a bullet in his head. Your gun is still aimed under his chin; one wrong move and his brains decorate the floor.

Suddenly, there's a hand. A hand on the back of your neck. Soft, strong fingers that brush over your nape and make you shiver. You're powerless against the warmth of his flesh. A hand under your jaw, tilting your head up so Min can kiss you. Slow, soft, sweet. An apology. You're frozen as silken palms cup your cheeks and hold you there. His lips are unbearably soft, his tongue across your bottom lip, slow and easy. You jam the gun into the hollow under his jaw to assert authority but he doesn't stop, fingers inching into your hairline to gently card through your dark mane of hair. Your shoulders sink against his body, fingers loosening around your pistol. He tugs it from between your boneless fingers, tossing it under the dinner table.

You'd thought about him, night after night, while working with the Golden Path. Slender yet powerful hands against your thighs, your hips, your stomach. He would pour honeyed words into your ear and kiss your hands. You were his art, you were his only hope. He bathed you in blood and oil as he whispered nothings and moaned curses. But you had underestimated him, the sheer power of his touches, how much you wanted his arms around you, how much you needed his lips against yours.

"You've wanted this forever, haven't you?" He breathes against your cheek and you can't help but slide your hand into his. "All this killing, all this angst." He murmurs and you feel is lips moving against your high cheekbone...but things can't be forgotten that easily. Mohan, the Golden Path, the death of Lakshmana and the sheer amount of power that Kyrat gave him. "Come now, show me those eyes." He sighs and you prop yourself up on shaky arms. Your adrenaline has run dry but your anger has far further to go. You wrap a hand around his throat, leather-clad fingers curling around the pale column of it. His breaths turn heavy and quick, his pulse a heavy beat under your palms. His eyes remain dark, lidded, knowing but he won't stop you. Maybe he knows he deserves it? Or maybe he knows he's made a monster? But you can't help it, leaning down to bite and pant and growl against his lips.

"... You've thought about me, haven't you?" He asks breathlessly, dark eyes bearing into your own as if to search your mind for a truthful answer. You shove your lips against his throat, taking in the scent of his skin, sweet and spicy. "Haven't you?" He repeats and you can't run anymore.  
"... Yes." You answer, burying your lips against the sharp curve of his jaw.

Your hands fumble with his slim-fit, hot pink suit pants, tugging them down his legs and over his shoes. He wraps his legs around your hips and curls his fingers into the hair at the back of your neck as you release his throat. He doesn't wear underwear. Of course, he doesn't. The heels of his boots dig into the small of your back as he ruts against you, his kisses turning passionate, slow and warm, a brand of desire burned into your skin. Your fingers tug at your zipper and you slide yourself out of your underwear, the length of your cock grinding against his entrance. He gulps down a breath, fingertips grasping at the curve of your shoulder blades. He won't ask you to be gentle. For once, he won't talk. You slick your cock with saliva and shove yourself in without preparation. His chest heaves with a yelp as you fill him to the brim. He holds you close, breathing in the warmth on your skin, letting you spend your anger on him. You begin to move, feeling his body curl, hot and tight, around you.  
"... You say...a fucking word...and I'll cut you open..." You pant against his temple and he grips at the back of your coat. Your hips snap against his and you know you can't last long, not with his hands on your back and his hair in your eyes. "Min..." You groan and he presses a kiss to your ear.  
"Yes?" His voice sounds broken and soft, breaths heaving in time to your rough thrusts.  
"I can't... I'm not gonna..." You begin but he catches your lips, silencing your words and overwhelming your senses. Warm, so warm... You spend with the taste of his mouth on your tongue, his boot heels digging into your back.

Your mother said she loved him. Did she mean it? Whether she did or not, you mean it when you mouth the words against his shoulder, his lips planting soft kisses across your throat.


End file.
